


Team Assignment

by hgdoghouse



Category: The Professionals
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-12
Updated: 2012-01-12
Packaged: 2017-10-29 10:05:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,785
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/318708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hgdoghouse/pseuds/hgdoghouse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bodie's view of the early days of his partnership with Doyle.</p><p>Part 2 of the Stepping Stones series.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Team Assignment

I thought nothing could be worse than our first day working together. It's funny how wrong you can be, about anything.

Looking back on it I don't know how I got through that first month, it aged me ten years. It was sheer unexpurgated hell, not least because of the green-eyed cretin Cowley lumbered me with.

The work he had us on didn't help. Doyle of course accepted all the crap we got thrown at us like a well-trained lap dog; he even managed to look as if he enjoyed doing the filing. At first I put it down to the fact he didn't know any better. I'm learning different.

I'm still not sure if it was malice on Cowley's part or whether we genuinely hit a quiet spell when we first joined. I haven't been able to work out any sort of pattern, except that we're always busiest when we're down for a weekend off. Sometimes I even find myself looking back on those first few weeks quite fondly. Well at least I got the odd hour to myself.

On the other hand, perhaps not. No one should be lumbered with the kind of stuff Cowley kept us on: checking and updating files to go on the computer; chasing reports; testing everything from pea-shooters to howitzers; tail-jobs; writing reports (in triplicate - join CI5 and learn how to type) and making assessments of ‘safe houses.'

That wasn't all of course; if Cowley was really impressed with our improved typing skills we got called out as backup - and we never got outside the car except to take a leak.

I don't know why I stuck it.

Curiosity, I suppose, and pig-headedness. I don't enjoy being made to realise how little I know, particularly not when it's in my field. Came as something of a surprise that; Cowley has a good bunch - and they know it.

It didn't take me long to realise I'd got complacent, soft in a way. Oh, I was fit enough, and there wasn't much anyone could teach me about demolition or unarmed combat - I thought. I'm not going to harp on about Macklin, it'll only depress me. Thought I'd left his sort behind me when I demobbed. It was lucky I had a few other tricks up my sleeve or I could have ended up with an inferiority complex.

I was glad of all of my tricks the first time I saw Doyle in action on the range. He upstaged everyone nearly the whole way, and for all that he managed to look suitably modest I came bloody close to shoving my Magnum somewhere he wouldn't be able to ignore.

Still, I wiped the smile off his face once I got that Uzi in my hands.

Every so often, when the tedium was at its worst, Cowley would nobble us, dragging us away from whatever current excitement we were engaged in - usually getting the vending machine to cough up the goods. We spent a hell of a lot of time chauffeuring him around while he gave us pep-talks. I suppose I'll get used to the platitudes if I stay long enough.

Jack-of-all-trades is what he wants us to be.

‘Shared expertise...'

Great theory.

It didn't take a genius to see how Doyle interpreted that. I made it very clear to him that if he thought I was going to play Watson to his Holmes he could think again - from a great distance. I can't stand jumped-up coppers, I've met too many of them. I might just as well have saved my breath, Doyle doesn't intimidate easy.

I reckon I now know more about the working methods of the British police force than your average PC - which will be about as helpful as a double hernia. Mind, I'm not saying Doyle isn't better informed about a few things. I had to give up on some stuff though - packed it in when I found myself close to throttling the bastard. Maybe Macklin will succeed where I failed. Doyle's a mystery to me; how can anyone so bright be so thick about something as simple as map reading? In retrospect it's given me a lot of quiet amusement. Blindfold Doyle in the middle of Soho and he'll still find the shortest route from A to B; bung him in a few fields and...

How can he have such a lousy sense of direction? And you can't trust him with a compass; the only thing he looks at the sky for is to see if it's going to rain. I think it's safe to say he isn't likely to take up orienteering.

Despite these little diversions there have been plenty of times when I've come bloody close to telling Cowley to stuff his job.

I can stand eight hours of boredom in Archives; I've got used to getting up at five in the morning to go on some sodding course and be told something I already know - although I'm not saying that some of it won't come in handy. I've even adjusted to the ruined social life. It's Doyle I can't take.

I reckon I've had a full life, met some oddballs in my time. Forget it, Doyle's in a class of his own. He'd drive an Archdeacon to drink. I wasn't surprised he'd left the police still only a DC. The only surprise is that they hadn't kicked him out before he had a chance to resign. He has a nasty way with words does Ray, and he's more changeable than the bloody weather. Talk about looks being deceiving - you'd swear butter would melt in his angelic mouth. Butter? I reckon he drinks vitriol for breakfast.

He can't have carried on like this when he was a kid, he'd never have survived beyond puberty - unless he had a minder from his pram upwards. He certainly couldn't have looked after himself when he was a kid; he's not what you could call a sturdy build now - sometimes looks like a puff of wind would blow him over. Forget it. He's solidly put together and he's got stamina, more than you would think.

It was a while before I got round to noticing him properly; remiss that, because he's worth a second glance. In fact he's a fanciable little bugger if you like the unusual, though he's got the type of looks where he can seem downright ugly at times. No half measures, that's Doyle. But sometimes - sensual, that's the word for him. He knows how to play on what he's got, too - if he's in the mood. He always seems to be in the mood.

But it's never been my policy to mix business with pleasure.

The temptation's there though. I've found myself wondering, then I've caught him watching me at it, all bright-eyed challenge.

I'll say one thing for him, he isn't slow on the uptake. He's been flaunting it like there's no tomorrow since then. He knows his stuff, too. You can't fault the body, it's all put together in just the right proportions and those jeans of his can be a distraction, especially now I know what's not under them half the time. Natural fibre next to his skin my - That's why he does it, of course. Be interesting to see what he'll do when winter sets in.

His arse isn't his only asset though. Not by a long way. You should see them in the typing pool when he saunters through first thing in the morning. Sets them up for the day; him too, I shouldn't wonder.

He's a born flirt. I don't think he can help himself half the time. If he's not careful he might get more than he's bargained for from me. About the only person he doesn't turn it on for is Cowley, and I reckon that's only a matter of time. He'll fiddle his expenses once too often - now there I am prepared to concede his genius.

I wonder if Cowley... I can't see it myself, he'd be more interested in their security rating than their cup measurement.

As for Doyle, he doesn't seem one for inhibitions. Anything that moves I would have thought. He's got a knowing little face. Bet he was born dissipated. Be interesting to find out. Maybe I will one day. If we stick together long enough.

Not that he just relies on the outside packaging to slay ‘em. He can look very soulful when it suits him, so if the obvious goes unnoticed or unappreciated, the odds are that air of troubled gravity will knock them for six. I've seen birds go off with him for dinner oozing maternal instinct; they've learnt better by morning.

About that soulful look; you need to watch your back when that appears, it means he's thinking, usually about how to stitch you up.

No, that's not fair - totally.

Another thing about him that irritates the hell out of me is the way he likes to reason things out. Me, I go by instinct most of the time but before Doyle scratches he likes to know why he's itching; that's only the beginning. When a job's over, unless everything has gone perfectly - and I suppose it might happen one day - he starts analysing everything, inside out and backwards. He has a tendency to get a bit deep and meaningful for my taste. But I'm not knocking him for it, it comes in handy sometimes, even while he's driving me nuts.

It isn't just that he's conscientious, he really cares.

Straight up. A rare commodity that is. But it's one of the reasons I trust him when things are getting hairy. He seems to trust me, too. I dunno why, the pay's not that good. Still, we get by, in a manner of speaking, though I don't suppose our style would suit a lot of people. It's certainly got a few of the older hands puzzled. I get the feeling they think Doyle and I do nothing but slug it out behind closed doors. Have to admit it isn't an impression either of us have done much to try and correct; it helps pass the time when things are slow.

I wonder when the novelty will wear off and I'll jack it in. I'm not a great one for lost causes - you learn by your mistakes. There's no point getting involved. I look after me first and second.

Still, at least the quality of work has improved now, and even when things are bad I've known worse. We haven't come across anything we haven't been able to handle between the pair of us.

I suppose the main thing that keeps me holding on is curiosity as to how long Doyle and I last before we decide to call it a day.

I've never spent so much time in just one person's company before, not even when I was out in - ‘s worse than being married, all the pain and precious little pleasure.

For an ex-copper Doyle is - OK.

He never gives up on anything. It took me a while to realise we had that much in common. It was at the end of our fourth week together when Cowley handed us over to Macklin for a four day course: ‘Instruction in Street Survival Techniques' Macklin called it - more like seventeen ways to kick a bloke in the balls. He demonstrated them all on us - improved my reflexes no end.

Course? It fucking near killed me and I'm supposed to be used to that kind of action. Doyle and I were both forced to revise a few opinions during those four days. I know I stopped believing that it was only luck which had kept him alive this long.

Only Doyle could take Macklin on and believe he could win; he came bloody close to it for the first few minutes. Could tell Macklin hadn't expected him to be so wild; the other guy he had with him - Barry Martin - just grinned and shouted out some advice to Doyle. Learnt over a beer that night that Martin had been the one to take Doyle through his induction course. I knew it had to be something like that because there's nothing else about Doyle to warn you.

I knew he had a temper on him - I should do, I've seen enough hints of it - but that was all. By the time Macklin had finished needling him (I can't remember what it was that actually sparked Doyle off) his face was pinched looking and white with anger. Since then I've been more careful about trying to get a rise out of him. I don't mind settling with Doyle myself, if the need arises, but I don't want him chucked out of CI5 for clocking me - or anyone else.

One bonus of that little episode is that I've relaxed when we get caught up in a strong-arm situation and stopped trying to do the work of two. Doyle might not have the build of a heavyweight but he manages. He's so bloody fast it gives him one hell of an edge. He works at keeping it too, all the time. I sometimes think it would be nice if he would ease up when there's just the two of us around but... What the hell, it keeps me on my toes.

God knows what he thinks of me. He's not smitten, I can tell that much. The background, you see.

I can get by without Doyle's approval.

But he's an odd one, along with the temper and cynicism and oddball humour goes a king-sized conscience. Honest. He probably still believes in Father Christmas. It was like taking sweets from a baby setting him up and then playing on that weak spot of his, until he caught on to what I was doing.

Funny mixture.

He could give Doubting Thomas lessons, yet he can be so bloody naive, especially where birds are concerned. They'll be his downfall. He gets that little haze of lust in his eyes and thinks with his balls.

He's got possibilities though, for all kinds of things.

"What's that? Asleep? Judging everyone by yourself, mate. I was thinking."

"About time."

No, I was right, we definitely aren't in a sunny mood this morning. "Cheers, Doyle."

Oh, no, I recognise those dulcet tones floating down the hall. Still, maybe it'll give us something to do. I thought we were going to be stuck in here all day. It's bad enough to be on duty on a sunny Sunday without spending it in the rest room with a disgruntled Ray Doyle.

"Morning, sir."

I dunno what Doyle's looking so pissed off about, it's something to do, isn't it?

Bodyguard!

Twenty-four hour job?

Cowley can't do this to me, I've just got the evening fixed up. That's it, I've had it. Stuff the bloody job. Tell him now.

Too late. Doyle's gone in, both feet first as usual. I've got to admit, he's got a ripe turn of phrase when it suits him.

Oh, Cowley must be in a good mood this morning, he's left him a few shreds of skin.

"...Bodie?"

"Me, sir? No, sir. Nothing to do with me, sir. He's just the impulsive free spirit you insisted on teaming me with."

"Do I take it that you are requesting reassignment?"

Freeze blood that glare would.

"No, sir." Not yet. Shut your mouth Doyle, you'll be catching flies next.

"...wrong now?"

Cantankerous old sod.

"No, sir, not a thing. Nothing I like better than wasting my time watching some bloody politician's bodyguard watching me."

Time off to compensate?

Sometimes I wonder about Doyle. Stupid prat. That'll teach him to ask the Cow when he's in this mood. Still, it took the heat off me. Thinking about it, Doyle isn't _that_ stupid. Thanks, mate, even if I am quite capable of looking after myself. But it can't hurt to have a word with him about subtlety once we're alone in the car. No finesse, that's his trouble.

"Yes, sir. And you."

Twenty four hours duty. I must be mad.

"Will you stop staring at me like that, Doyle. So I don't want reassignment. There's no need to make a production out of it, you're just the best of a lousy bunch."

Cocky bastard.

"Listen, I'll so when it suits me, mate. I'm just biding my time, waiting until Cowley's actually spent some money on us before I pack it in. Then it'll really bite deep, get him where it hurts, his pocket."

No, I didn't think Doyle would swallow that.

You know, when he grins like that, taking you by surprise, you can't help warming towards the stroppy little sod.

THE END

**Author's Note:**

> Written 1984


End file.
